Moniker
by Sweet Valentine
Summary: What’s yer name, kid?" He remains silent – partially out of fear, but mostly because he cannot actually answer; he has no name. /Blank, Baku, and the beginnings of Tantalus./


**Disclaimer: Square does not belong to me, neither does the characters of this game.**

**Moniker**

It's a struggle to keep the pattering of his feet soft upon the cobblestones of the Lindblum street; nonetheless, he forces his steps to stay light and fleeting as he stalks along after the cumbersome man. He trails behind the man only a few paces, and his eyes narrow predatorily, seizing upon the sight of his prey's gil pouch, clearly hefty with bulky coins. So close.

The man sidesteps abruptly, to avoid a collision with a woman scurrying against the current of bodies, and the boy pounces – the encounter has left the bigger man slightly off-kilter, and the red-headed child smoothly unhooks the pouch from its owner's belt in one swift, cat-like motion, and scurries off down the alley – success.

As always, he feels the blood rushing to his head, the thrill of the chase making his ears pound; his catch will likely get him a good two weeks of food, if he's thrifty – and he's always thrifty. He does what it takes to survive, because survival is all he knows. When one's an orphan, they learn quickly.

He hates the term 'orphan', though. He prefers to think of himself as a Coerl; the monsters normally give birth to their young and then abandon them; but the young are just as ferocious, if not more so, than their parents; they grow up in the wild on their own, learn how to hunt and survive. They have no need for parents; they fend for themselves. He prefers to think of himself as a beast (not the in the sense of he's likely to go around mauling people and whatnot, 'course that's ridiculous), but in the sense that he is completely independent, a coerl who hunts along the paved streets of Lindblum, singling out those who would be easy targets for him to do some gil-snatching.

He makes his way swiftly down the deserted path, before darting behind a few dusty crates. He sits, heart still pounding in his chest, and opens the pouch to reap the spoils of his hunt. The weight of the pouch is comfortable in his gloved hands, and he indulges in a crooked smile – that is, until a forceful hand clamps down upon his shoulder, thick fingers balling up the fabric of his worn and pathetic excuse for a tunic. Panic strikes – it is a hot and burning in the pit of his stomach, and he feels himself being swiveled and 'round and lifted off the ground, painfully by the scruff of his collar, and brought level with the large, round black goggles belonging to the unfortunate victim of his earlier heist. The boy's eyes widen, almost comically – he's been caught. Granted, it's not the first time he's been seen stealing, but he's never been physically trapped by his victim; oh how the tables have turned!

His mouth hangs there, slack-jawed, as the large man gives him a once-over; he's remarkably calm for a man who's just had an entire pouch of gil stolen off of him. The redhead says nothing. He doesn't dare.

"What's yer name, kid?"

He remains silent – partially out of fear, but mostly because he cannot actually answer; he has no name.

The man doesn't seem to care, nor does he seem nonplussed by the boy's refusal to speak. He continues on, cool and controlled, "Yer an orphan, aren't ya?"

The boy doesn't trust himself to speak, but finds himself nodding his head anyway. "That's what I thought." The man continues, his voice rough and low, yet surprisingly not malicious. He has not relinquished his grasp on the boy, who is dangling three feet in the air, limp as a rag doll.

The man's brows furrow with concentration, and after a few moments of nothing save the sounds of the bustling streets just down the alleyway, he speaks: "Nice pick."

The boy's eyebrows shoot up. Had the man just really just complimented him – he, the boy who had _stolen his bag of gil? _

The man elaborated. "I could use a kid like you. Got a whole gang of 'em, we're called Tantalus; we're always looking for new blood."

Something strikes a chord. "Tantalus is just a bunch of actors!" The boy cries impetuously. The older man's eyebrows raise in surprise.

"That's what the general public thinks, o'course. But we, the members that is, we showcase a wider variety of – erm, _skills_."

The redhead doesn't know what to make of this; after all, he's been on his own his whole life.

"We'll give ya a bed to sleep in, a roof over yer head, and food. It's a mighty good deal for any kid out on the streets."

The boy defiantly tries to wrest himself from the man's grip, but fails miserably. The man lets out a loud guffaw. "How about you join, and I don't turn you into the authorities, does _that_ sound like a deal?"

The boy scowls – that sounds more like blackmail.

* * *

They weave their way in and out through the crowded streets, the boy tailing closely behind the man – Baku was his name – making their way to Tantalus' hideout. Neither really says much, neither having much to say. The boy looks wistfully at Baku's belt, where the plump bag of gold swings, clanging from side to side. Oh well – he supposes he doesn't have to worry so much about supper anymore; Baku promised to keep him well fed and healthy provided he pull his own weight and did some 'work' for the group. Baku had not elaborated on this point, aside from assuring the boy that it was nothing "too morally suspect, or whatever".

The redhead still doesn't like it – he hates this feeling, the feeling of being trapped and completely dependent on the whims of this Baku. Gone is the ferocious Coerl, and in its place, the meek Mu. He sighs.

They amble along, until finally they reach what looks to be a rather run down set of apartments. The boy isn't overly impressed, but keeps his mouth shut. They enter, and he's surprised to find that the building is slightly bigger than he expected its outer façade lets on. It's messy, to be sure, but there's a sort of warm hominess to the air. Not that he would know, but that's what it feels like.

Baku makes his way over to an old rickety desk, and pulls out what looks to be a worn, dusty large book. He takes a quill, opens the leather-bound book and flips through a dozen or so pages before putting the feather to paper. The boy continues looking around the abode warily, only barely noticing the faint scratches of Baku's quill.

"I'd almost forgotten…what's yer name? You can tell me now, right?"

He looks at Baku sharply and sucks air through his teeth, almost hissing. Baku is waiting, expectantly. "I just need to put down some information 'bout ya – it's a member log, if you will. To let you know you're officially one of us."

The boy is determined to just suck it up, admit out loud that he's just a nobody without a name, a boy abandoned in every sense of the word. He has nothing to offer Baku.

Before he says anything though, Baku holds up a grubby hand. "I see." The boy bites his lip, out of defiance or in an effort to maintain composure, he himself does not know. Baku goes on though, saying, "Well in that case, we're just going to have to leave it blank, huh."

"…Blank?" The boy asks.

"Well, unless you can come up with something…" Baku starts, but the boy interjects.

"Blank is fine."

The boy doesn't quite understand Baku's smile. "All right then. Blank it is."


End file.
